


Miniscule Issues

by angellteeth



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, He has. A Depressive Episode :), but the ending is niceish i think, im writing at unreasonable times again :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27023788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angellteeth/pseuds/angellteeth
Summary: Several month long depressive episode, yeah, very miniscule. Very meaningless. Very easy to get past. Doesn't mean anything about your mental health. Sure, buddy.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Miniscule Issues

So Stan had been having a... _Less than ideal_ few weeks. Or months. (Hell, you could as far as years.)

He hesitated to call it _bad_. He'd hesitated to acknowledge when things were _bad_ for years now. Like if he just ignored the feeling enough, it would go away eventually.

The tactic failed more often than it succeeded, but for every time he didn't just break down completely he became more sure that if he could just _suck it up_ and _live with it_ he would be _fine._

And having restructured his entire life over the course of a couple months after getting his shit wrecked by some memory laser didn't exactly make his mental state very stable.

But who'd really notice or care if he was lethargic for a while? Nobody would care if he took longer to respond to people and didn't bother talking unless he _really_ had to. Nobody would be concerned if his humor became more centered around self deprecation and death for a little bit. Right?

_Right?_

Apparently Stanford had started "working on himself" or whatever and was trying to be observant and careful about people and their mental states.

And he just couldn't sit back and watch Stan's mental state deteriorate, _apparently_.

It was a nice sentiment but it got on the old man's nerves, just a bit.

He was _fine,_ he didn't need some _intervention._

"Trust me Sixer, 'm right as rain." He tried his damndest to sound like a person instead of a tired woodchipper. It didn't quite work.

"Stanley, I've been taking notes," That's definitely normal, "And the way you've been acting aligns with common signs of depressive episodes." Stanford tapped the cover of his most recent sketchbook.

The stack by his bed was a far cry from his journals, but they shared the same concept. The sketchbooks just held far fewer notes or personal entries. All sketches for documenting what they found out there, with the odd photo stuck here and there.

Except for when it came to noting Stan's behavior, _for some reason._

"I'm pretty sure people don't just do that, Ford." Stan gave him an irritated look. "'Sides, since when are you a psychologist?"

"You don't have to have a degree in something to learn about it, Stanley."

"Yeah, well, I ain't depressed. I'm always tired, pissed off, 'n slow." 

"Please, Stanley, I really think you would benefit from talking about whatever the problem is."

Stan gave him a pointed look and sighed. 

"There's nothin' to talk about. I'll be normal in a while, anyhow." Maybe admitting that yes, there was a problem, but it was perfectly temporary would get him off his back. "Not like this ain't normal for me, though." 

He added it on as a complete afterthought. It wasn't supposed to mean anything.

But of _course_ it meant something.

Can't catch a break.

"Do episodes like this happen often?" Ford tapped one of his fingers on the cover of the sketchbook like he wanted to be taking notes at that very moment. Why he couldn't just commit it memory was beyond Stan.

"Sixer, I've been like this since we were thirteen. I can deal with it."

"They've been going on _that_ long??"

"You. Never noticed?"

He'd honestly thought Ford knew, and that he just didn't think it was a big deal. Because it wasn't a big deal. His problem didn't mean anything. It came and went and he always made do.

"I. I might have?" Ford scratched at his jawline, thinking back. Stan had been going in and out of depressive episodes for _three years_ before getting kicked out and he just... Didn't take note?? "I just never thought you could be depressed, I guess."

Stan gave him that irritated look again. "I'm not depressed till a licensed therapist tells me I am."

"I'm not saying you _are_ , I'm just saying you _could be._ And therapy probably isn't that bad an idea."

"I'm not gonna pay a stranger to tell me whether I'm screwed up or not when I already know the answer."

"It's not just about the diagnosis, Stanley. You could get a prescription."

"I don't need pills. I work fine."

" _Fine_ is never quite _good_ , though. And with a prescription, you could work _great._ "

"Why is this important to you, Stanford?" Stan slouched forward a bit. Were his eyes always like that are did his vision just get blurrier? Had he been exhausted by a short conversation?

That was pathetic, even for him.

"Is your mental health _not_ supposed to be important to me?" 

"No?? It's not even important to _me._ "

"And that's a problem."

"I don't see how. Ain't like I matter that much." That last part wasn't supposed to slip out of his brain. He'd been better at this in the past.

"Stanley!" Ford was shockingly taken aback, like the statement offended him personally. "Don't say that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's offensively far from the truth."

"For one, when have I ever been a stranger to lying, two, it's not much of a lie."

"What in the world makes you think you don't matter??"

"What 'n the world makes you think I _do_?"

To be entirely honest, he didn't really have a _reason._ Nothing really set off the feeling. It was as much a gut instinct as not touching fire directly.

"You saved this family and the _world_."

He did kind of play a part in that, didnt he? He didn't really have an argument for that. It wasn't like that offset the worthless feeling.

"Without you, we'd be dead and the entire world would be in absolute ruins." Ford went on. "Hell, I probably wouldn't have even made it far enough for Bill to be the one to kill me, without you around."

"You were fine on your own for forty years or so."

"When I was an adult, more or less, sure. And those ten years would've been easier, with you around. I probably wouldn't have resorted to a demon for companionship, at the very least."

"Didn't I ruin your life or something."

"And then you saved it twice. And in any case, I wouldn't call what I have now a ruined life."

Stan sighed.

"Fine, fine, I matter." He mostly gave in just so Ford could drop the subject. But it was kind of nice to hear it.

"Yes, you do. Don't forget that." He said, his tone all to psychiatrist-y for someone who wasn't a psychiatrist.

"Whatever you say, doctor." Stan rolled his eyes.

"I mean it. You matter and you should remind yourself of it."

Stan was quiet for a minute, considering the option. It wasn't like he was new to lying to himself.

"Can't hurt, I guess." He shrugged.

With any luck, that'd be enough for Stanford not make him get a therapist. For a while, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno dude I started this at 4:30 am and ended at 5:30 am


End file.
